


Hands: Clasped Tight

by neverminetohold



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[ Home is the place of misery and happiness. It stuffs you with cotton to bursting and feels like belonging, for the pain is mild and welcome. ]</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC, Moffat & Co. - I'm just playing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands: Clasped Tight

Sherlock puffs out his cheeks in helpless exasperation but John won't budge, determined to bring him down.  
  
“John!”  
  
He puts up a fuss of tugging and repeats the name thrice, the exclamation mark more pronounced each time to get his token protest across as sincere. He can't help himself; his need to save face is selfish and immature.  
  
Sherlock hopes it is one more thing that John will forgive him for, eventually.  
  
Then, with a grimace, he deems it safe to give in. Sherlock settles down on the bed, coat and all, alongside John. It takes some careful maneuvering to not dislodge the hand wrapped around his wrist.  
  
The blue sheets are warm and comfy and Sherlock feels heavy with sleep after months of austerity in hiding. The pillow his head rests on, though, could as well be a brick: to the bruise he must by now sport, courtesy from John's impressive right welcome hook, its all the same.  
  
The physical discomfort is the smallest price he has yet to pay for faking his death.  
  
Sherlock prefers to instead focus his attention on the fresh smell of shampoo that tickles his nose with each breath; the aroma of herbs is accompanied by the brush of John's hair. The grip around his wrist tightens and Sherlock follows the pull willingly, inching closer, finally ready to admit that this was the place he had longed for.  
  
“Don't ever do that again.”  
  
John's whisper is harsh and hollow with defeat and Sherlock's chest tightens in a way beyond the physical. He was one year gone and regrets every second, because this is his fault. It is exhilarating and terrifying, to mean so much to another person.  
  
“I won't.”  
  
Sherlock doesn't recognize his own voice and has to swallow hard. He won't apologize again, not yet. John is not willing to hear it and even if he were, there is this illogical fear that the words will wear thin if he repeats them too often.  
  
Its a fear connected to many more words he can't quite put his trust in. But he is here now and a genius – he should be able to learn.  
  
Instead he adds, “I promise.”  
  
A minute and twenty six seconds pass in silence, only broken by cars passing through Baker Street. Then John's grip shifts until their hands are clasped together, fingers intertwined so tightly that they go numb first and hurt later.  
  
It feels like coming home.  
  
  
[ _Home is the place of misery and happiness. It stuffs you with cotton to bursting and feels like belonging, for the pain is mild and welcome._ ]  
  
  
End


End file.
